To some people it looked like the game was just starting. First innings, two out and a runner on second and as Slugger came out to bat everyone knew what would happen. With a name like Slugger, there was only one thing that could happen.
To Kurvble, however, the game had been going for a long time already. Sometimes he would joke that the game started when his mother first set eyes on his father over 24 years ago, at least his listeners assumed he was joking. Slugger just took the game one homer at a time. Kurvble wasn't joking. Perhaps he exaggerated a little, but the game didn't start when he put on his helmet. It didn't start when he boasted to the media about how he was going to hit the first pitch out of the stadium. That was just a little image reinforcement. Everyone saw Slugger, waiting with those bulging muscles, muscles built up from hours in the gym and a carefully selected diet, waiting to dispatch this first pitch, this soft pitch heading straight for the sweet spot, this first pitch that went straight, until it dipped down and away, out of the sweet spot, out of the strike zone and into the catcher's mitt.
Kurvble barely flinched a muscle as he watched it go by. The crowd let out a great sigh as they settled back into their seats but secretly they were pleased that they would get another chance to see the ball slugged on the very next pitch. Kurvble never struck at the first pitch. There was too much information to be gained. Would the same little telltales that he had picked up from the film still be there? Could he tell what the pitch was going to be from the way the pitcher's toe pointed? Slugger would have swung and missed for Strike 1. Kurvble stood and watched and listened for the call from behind the plate.
Strike 1.
That was the most important information of all. The opposition were paying the heavier bribes.